So what does she do with this brand-new life of hers?
Tell young Fergusson “I love you,” a thought which has never occurred to either of them until this
moment. And his reborn self thinks it’s a satisfactory idea, even though he’s never found her attractive
until this moment. But she’s a brand-new person, and so is he, and these new selves find something in
each other the old ones, limited by their associations with the rest of her family, couldn’t possibly find. Is
it spiritual? That probably depends on what you think about posp. 161sessing a brand-new self. It’s not
overtly religious. On the other hand, almost nothing happens in Lawrence that doesn’t seem to me to be
deeply spiritual, even if it’s in fairly mystifying ways.
So when a character drowns, what does that mean?
Oh, they die. Remember me mentioning Iris Murdoch earlier? Given half the chance, she’d drown the
Seventh Fleet. If there’s water in one of her novels, somebody’s going to drown. In The Unicorn
(1963), she has a character nearly drown in a bog, in order to have a cosmic vision, and then be saved
only to have the vision fade before it can do him any good. Later, she has two characters drown in
separate but related incidents, or at least one drown and the other fall over a cliff by the sea. And
Flannery O’Connor, along the same lines only more peculiar, has a story called “The River” (1955) in
which a little boy, having watched baptisms joining people to God on a Sunday, goes back to the river
the next day to join God on his own. Yes, he does, sad to say. And Jane Hamilton, in A Map of the
World (1994), has her main character allow a child to drown through negligence, then she has to deal
with the consequences throughout the remainder of the novel. Not to mention John Updike’s Rabbit,
Run (1960), in which Rabbit Angstrom’s wife, Janice, drunkenly drowns their child while trying to bathe
it. Each of these instances is particular. It’s a little like Tolstoy says at the beginning of Anna Karenina
about families: All happy families are the same, but every unhappy one has its own story. The
rebirths/baptisms have a lot of common threads, but every drowning is serving its own purpose: character
revelation, thematic development of violence or failure or guilt, plot complication or denouement.
To return to Morrison’s character Beloved rising from the water, back from the dead. On the personal
level, the river may be the Styx, the river of the dead in the Greek underworld that the spirits crossed to
enter Hades. And it certainly functionsp. 162that way: she has returned from the dead, literally. But the
river stands for something else as well. In its small way, it is the middle passage, that watery sojourn that,
one way and another, took the lives of millions, as Morrison says in the novel’s epigraph. Beloved has
died when her mother kills her rather than allow her to be taken back across the river into slavery. The
drowning imagery is not merely personal here but cultural and racial. Not every writer can pull that one
off, but Morrison can.
Like baptism, drowning has plenty to tell us in a story. So when your character goes underwater, you
have to hold your breath. Just, you know, till you see her come back up.
19 – Geography Matters...
p. 163LET’S GO ON VACATION. You say okay and then ask your first question, which is...
Who’s paying? Which month? Can we get time off? No. None of those.
Where?
That’s the one. Mountains or beaches, St. Paul or St. Croix, canoeing or sailing, the Mall of America or
the National Mall. You know you have to ask because otherwise I might take you to some little trout